


No Regrets

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil (MCU Avengers Universe) [17]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Jager shots, M/M, Party, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Time Travel, Underage Drinking, but all is well, young Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>17-year-old Phil Coulson is a real surprise. Can Clint survive this bad boy when he sets his mind to something?  Or the story of how Clint Barton became The Guy and Phil is a sexy little fucker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> So Clark Gregg posted this picture on his facebook page and some people commented on tumblr ... and here it is. My muse worked overtime to get a grown up Clint Barton face-to-face with a young Phil Coulson. In a closet. ;D

Based upon this [tumblr post](http://ralkana.tumblr.com/post/77290527777/akafoxxcub-lavishness-akafoxxcub) and this picture posted on Clark Gregg’s Facebook Page:

Clint Barton had a suitcase full of regrets that he carried around with him every day. Part and parcel of the life he’d led, he unpacked them sometimes in the middle of the night and sometimes at the worst possible moments, intent on reminding himself of his failings, never letting himself forget that he was far from perfect. An orphan ex-carnie/bow for hire and all around general fuck-up at times, Clint had no illusions about what he’d done and the price he might one day have to pay for those choices.

There were four things, however, that Clint had done right in his life, and if he was a praying man, which he wasn’t, he’d thank God every day for them. First, he hadn’t taken the shot that night with Barney; even if he ended up with an arrow in his shoulder and a missing brother, Clint had drawn a line between himself and the likes of Jacques Duquesne that still held today. Joining SHIELD had been a damn good call; okay, maybe he hadn’t really had much of a choice, but the job had been the making of him and Clint could admit that. And convincing Phil to take a chance on Natasha was one of Clint’s crowning achievements; not only did he get a best friend, but he was convinced she’d saved the world three more times than he had, so, in a way, he was partially responsible for those as well.

The best decision Clint ever made was falling in love with one Phil Coulson. All of his other screw ups seemed manageable with Phil by his side and in his bed, even the ones that involved Tony Stark who, these days, seemed to be at the center of most of Clint’s escapades. It was Phil who made him unpack his shit for good, giving Clint a place to call home where all of his shortcomings were nothing more than part of what made him human.

“We’ve got nothing here,” Steve reported in his ear. “Sorry, but I think we just missed him. Tony says computers have been wiped in the last ten minutes.”

They’d tracked Marcher to this farmhouse in the middle of Kansas wheat fields; Natasha’s source had been sure he was in residence.  Clint wasn’t surprised, though, that he wasn’t there. Phil’s old Army buddy was proving to be a slippery adversary. He had to admit he was the tiniest bit jealous that Phil had an arch nemesis and Clint had to share with the other Avengers.

“I’m heading down the cellar stairs,” Clint reported back. “Scans show no life forms, but I’ve got an energy source inside. Maybe we’ll find something he missed.” The stairs emptied into a large room; in the middle of the floor sat what looked like a miniature light house, complete with strobe light that was flashing on and off as Clint approached.

Tony’s voice broke through. “Gang, I’m picking up some strange energy readings. They seem to be emanating from the …”

A loud hum rose from the lighthouse, the strobe picked up speed, and Clint blinked once ….

… and barely missed getting run over by a [black Pontiac Trans Am](http://www.allmusclecars.com/projects/1977/dr77se10.JPG), complete with the t-roof just like the one from Smokey and the Bandit, as it weaved its way down the street. Cutting the turn way too sharp, the driver pulled into the yard of the house, angling in among at least ten other vehicles, all of them straight from a [Dirty Harry movie](http://www.filmsquish.com/guts/files/images/dirty-harry.jpg).  Two teens got out, opened the trunk and taking out a [green Coleman cooler](http://www.busandcamper.com/shop/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/800x800/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/c/o/coleman_green_cooler_01.jpg) and at least ten pizza boxes. Lights streamed from every window of the house, lighting up the night, and people spilled out onto the porch. The music was blasting so loud, Clint could hear every word of the disco hit … oh my god, was that [the Bee Gees](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOMU5KOVoJ8)?

Clint was disoriented but he pulled himself together fast when one of the teens glanced back and saw him standing there, tactical suit, bow and quiver. Ducking behind a trimmed hedge, Clint dropped out of sight just behind the mailbox, trying to figure out where the hell he was and what had happened. Probably a portal of some kind, the machine in the basement had to be at the center of this. Unfortunately, parallel dimensions, time travel, stepping across vast distances into different worlds weren’t that unusual an occurrence; part of the job of being an Avenger was dealing with weird shit. First stop was getting the lay of the land, when and where then finding a way to blend in. Looking up at the stars, he thought to use their positions, but the name on the black mailbox answered a lot of his questions.

The Coulsons, it proclaimed in painted on script.

“Hey, Phil!” One of the guys on the porch shouted as he carried boxes into the house. “Pizza’s here!”

Shouts greeted the announcement.

“Get your fucking ass in here!” A familiar voice replied; peeking around the edge of the bush, Clint could only see an outline in the doorway, the lights behind throwing the figure into shadows. “Joey got a keg and he’s tapping it now. Party’s on!”

Oh fuck. Clint knew where he was. Bloomington, Indiana. Home of one Philip J. Coulson. And if the cars and the music were any indication, sometime in the late 1970s or early 80s. He’d heard this story more than once, one of Phil’s biggest regrets in his life. This party, these people, the alcohol … and the first time Phil had sex with a man. What the hell was Clint doing here?

He had to find out; running at a crouch, Clint went around the side of the brick ranch house, peeking in until he found an empty room, open window making it easy to hoist himself up and over. Obviously a bed room, Clint stopped by the desk and stared. A whole bookcase of action figures, some still in their cases, took up one wall. Two shelves of tiny Steve Rogers, carefully organized, and a complete[ Star Destroyer](http://www.finalfrontiertoys.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/5e06319eda06f020e43594a9c230972d/S/t/Star_Wars_Micro_machines_Star_Destroyer.JPG) from Star Wars didn’t surprise Clint at all. What did was the [Farrah Fawcett](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/89/Farrah_Fawcett_iconic_pinup_1976.jpg) poster on the wall, the baseball trophies, and the haphazard stacks of record albums, everything from Saturday Night Fever to Kansas and a brand new _Highway to Hell_ from AC/DC. Dirty clothes were strewn across the floor, bags of Reese’s Pieces and half-full bottles of Coke sitting everywhere. Baby Phil, it turned out, was a lot more complicated than Clint knew.

Locking the door, Clint looked for something less conspicuous than his suit to put on.  He found a clean pair of brown corduroys hanging in the closet and couldn’t pass up a [I’m a Pepper](http://thumbs1.ebaystatic.com/d/l225/m/mZ4LTbS-h5AQlkgP_pviuDA.jpg) t-shirt, soft from wear. Clint decided to risk keeping his own boots rather than the far too small tennis shoes Phil seemed to favor. Everything was a little too tight, but it would have to do. There was nothing to do about his short spiky hair but go with it.

The knob rattled just as Clint was stashing his bow in the back of the closet, behind some boxes marked ‘FRAGILE Collectibles’ in bright red lettering. A heavy hand banged on the door. “Hey, quit fucking around in there! We need to get some tunes, man.”

Swinging a leg over, Clint dropped back in the yard. Seems Phil had sanitized the story a bit; way he told it, this was his birthday party with some friends, not a drunken sprawl that would put a frat party to shame. He saw a couple making out in the front seat of one of the cars on the lawn, two people passed out in the bushes by the front porch, and any number of stumbling folks with red Solo cups of beer. Aside from a few admiring glances … from girls and guys both … no one questioned Clint as he entered the house for the second time, pushing his way through sweaty, gyrating bodies in the living room that looked like it stepped out of an old sitcom.

He really didn’t know what he was doing except finding Phil and trying to determine why Marcher targeted this specific event. The man was crazed about Phil’s supposed rejection, a fixation not helped by Phil’s marriage to Clint; Marcher was flat out insane, having killed at least one person Phil had been involved with during his years in the Army. Coming back here, Clint suspected, had to do with The Guy. That’s the way Phil talked about it. The Guy. The one he was so drunk he didn’t even remember. The one he regretted because it was his first time, and he didn’t even know The Guy’s name. The one who made him realize he was gay.

Somewhere along the line, he’d had a glass pressed into his hand and he held it as he leaned against the mantle, scanning the room for either Marcher or Phil. A sea of teenager in various stages of dress and inebriation, and Clint was the oldest person in the room. He glanced at the gilded mirror behind him, the lines on his face evident, a smudge still on one cheek. Thank God he looked younger than he was or he’d be completely out of place.

“You must be J.D.’s cousin.”

Phil Coulson at 17 was just as stealthy as he was at 50. Clint hadn’t been aware of his approach and now he was staring at the very young, very handsome face of the man he loved. Same nose, same chin, more hair, slimmer, a little gawky: Phil was wearing jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt, ratty at the edges and a hole in the shoulder seam. But it was his eyes that got to Clint, cut right through all the bullshit. They were full of mischief and undisguised interest, full on challenging Clint to say something, anything.

 “Um, yeah, that’s me.” Brilliant answer, but the noise level in the room was climbing and Clint couldn’t think of anything else.

“He said to keep an eye out for you,” Phil shouted, taking Clint’s drink and sitting it on the mantle. “Come on back to the kitchen where we’ve got the good stuff. I want to pick your brain about IU; I think I’m going there in the fall.”

“Indiana, yeah, sure. I go there.” Dammit, Clint was trying to remember all the details of Phil’s life as fast as he could, but that snug denim encased ass was making all the blood drain right down into his cock. God, but Phil Coulson was one gorgeous young thing.

“You fuck me?” Phil asked.

“What?” Clint knew his eyes were wide because what the hell?

“You follow me?” Phil repeated, raising his voice. “I asked how you liked it.”

“Yeah. It’s a good school,” Clint spit out the words but Phil just shrugged unable to hear his reply.

The sound dropped off as Phil led Clint into an orange and yellow kitchen where fewer people were gathered. A group of five other guys were pouring shots of dark brown liquor. Phil passed one to Clint before introducing him.

“Hey, I found is J.D.’s cousin. He’s going to fill me in with the details of college life.” Phil grinned at Clint; did he know what he was saying or was Phil just that drunk already? “Cheers!”

They all took the shot and Clint went with them, draining his own glass. The stuff was sticky and tasted like cough medicine; he grimaced and the others laughed.

“To Jagermeister!” A ginger headed guy raised the bottle and set about pouring another round.

“To Jager!” Phil shouted and they drank again. The third shot emptied the bottle and Ginger Guy went off to get another from Phil’s father’s liquor cabinet.

“God, Phil, you better not let Paula get her eyes on this one. You know how she is,” a long haired guy in a paisley polyester shirt said. His pattern clashed with the wallpaper that was everywhere in the room. “She’ll do him just to piss the old man off.”

Phil’s sister, Pauline, Clint assumed. He’d never met her or any of Phil’s family. It was a sore subject and Clint didn’t pushed it.

“Watch out for that one,” another guy, short and dark, probably Italian somewhere in his family, warned. “She’s a maneater. Going to be a real ball buster when she grows up.”

“More Jager!” Ginger guy was back with two more bottles. “And I found some serious tequila. That’s next.”

The room got hotter – it seemed like there were more people now than before – and Clint managed to palm off a couple rounds so he was just feeling a rush rather than being as shitfaced as the others. Between drinking they talked, and Clint learned all sorts of details about their lives. Phil was suspiciously quiet whenever his family came up, but he was certainly a prime instigator in this little rebellion of a party while his parents were out-of-town. Happy when something crashed in the dining room. Phil Coulson, rabble rouser and all around bad boy. Clint’s favorite moment was when Phil showed a picture from earlier that day; he and three of the guys had gone to the local mall and had their pictures taken with Santa on a dare. Stood in line with the little kids and everything. Clint was going to find that picture once he got back to the right time. If it weren’t for Marcher, Clint would sit back and enjoy this peek into his husband’s life … but the damn villain of the piece was nowhere to be found.

It didn’t help that Clint was trapped between the sink and refrigerator. Any time Phil wanted to get out, he had to squeeze behind or in front of Clint, and Clint’s dick was screaming at him to do something about that very nubile ass dragging against it. This was Phil, after all; they were destined to be lovers, to build a life together. The way Phil stared at Clint’s mouth made Clint’s cock twitch and his fingers itch to touch.

“So, did you really make out with three cheerleaders under the bleachers?” Phil leaned in close so Clint could hear the question. They were isolated at the moment, standing by the door into the hallway, Phil right up behind Clint, so close Clint could feel the heat of Phil’s body. He was already sweating, so many people in a small space raising the temperature in the house. “Or was it three linemen?”

Clint jerked his head around, catching the shit eating grin and sparkling eyes as Phil stared at him. He had no idea who J.D.’s cousin really was – he’d been vague in his answers about college – and Clint suddenly suspected why Phil had cornered him so quickly.

“Come here.” Phil looped a finger through Clint’s belt and tugged him into the hallway where no one was looking, opening a door and pushing Clint inside. Hustling him up against the shelves filled with blankets and sheets, Phil put an arm on either side of Clint’s shoulders, leaning in. “It’s okay. J.D. told me about you.”

“Told you what?” Clint was getting a clue but not fast enough to predict that Phil would close the distance in a blink and press his mouth to Clint’s.

Drunk Young Phil was a completely different experience than Older Phil; lips slid and opened, a little too wet and too eager. He was all hands, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first. Fingers scrabbled at the edge of Clint’s t-shirt, dragging along bare skin, then they dropped to Clint’s hips and clenched, holding him still so Phil could rub against Clint. There was no disguising Phil’s arousal, the hard length pressed tight alongside Clint’s own more than interested cock.

“Please.” Phil stopped kissing long enough to ask. “Let me suck you. Let me …”

“Phil,” Clint protested but those fingers found the button on his pants and were trying to work it free.

“I want this.” Damn it all to hell, but those eyes were pure sin, tempting Clint to taste the heady brew of Phil. His virginity, to be the first one. God, but Clint wanted this too.

“I shouldn’t.” He really, really shouldn’t. There were so many reasons why.

“We could get out of here; I know a place where no one will bother us.” Phil was tasting Clint’s skin now, sucking along his neck. Then he looked right at Clint and turned up every bit of teenage seduction he had. “I’ll let you fuck me.”

There was a touch of the older Phil in that statement, the way he waited until the end to add the punch of lust, counting on it to overwhelm Clint’s defenses.  Flashes of what might be flitted in Clint’s mind, smooth supple skin beneath Clint’s calloused fingers, those eyes going hazy in surprise with his orgasm. If he squeezed his lids shut, he could almost pretend that they were home, the party outside the door one of Tony’s.

But it wasn’t and Clint couldn’t do this.

“No.” He pushed Phil back, breaking the connection of their bodies. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“Right. Of course. Yeah.” Hurt flickered across Phil’s face before he shut it down. He stumbled trying to get the door opened, hands unable to turn the knob.

“Phil, listen to me.” Clint caught him, turned him back. “First, I’m seeing someone. He’d kill me if I cheated on him.”

“You’re in a … a … relationship.” Phil gave a little half laugh. “I didn’t think about that. Sorry. I mean … yeah, sorry.”

“Second, you’re drunk; I’d be taking advantage of you.” And that was a line Clint wouldn’t cross.

“You’re a good guy. With a tight ass and great arms. Just my luck,” Phil moaned, banging his head against the door.

“Yeah, you’ve got a weak spot for those,” Clint agreed. “But I’m not Captain America. If you were sober and I was free, I’d bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you so hard you’d remember me the rest of your life.”  He reached around Phil and turned the knob, cracking the door. “You go first and I’ll wait a …”

Phil threw the door open and stepped out in the hallway without looking first. Four girls were gathered in the entryway to the living room, another handful of Phil’s drinking buddies in the kitchen within sight.

“As long as I’m coming out of the closet …” Phil said to Clint, flashing him a saucy grin and a wink. Still he kept his voice low. “Later.”

Clint stood and watched him go, confidence in his stride until he stumbled a little, reminding Clint just how drunk the young man was.  Ginger Guy gave Clint a gimlet stare; there was some unrequited something there. Tracking Phil all the way to the back door, Clint noticed movement in the window above the sink, a dark figure crossing under the street light.

Marcher was here.

Pushing through the kids, Clint made his way through the kitchen, thinking about his bow and gun in the bedroom then dismissing the idea, not sure he had time to go get them. Outside, the darkness had fallen, shadows pooled behind trees and shrubs, cars haphazardly parked, far too many places to hide. Phil had seemingly disappeared in the few minutes he’d been out of sight. Systematically, Clint covered the landscaping closest to the house before circling further out, minutes ticking away.

The scuff of a foot on dirt made him pause; a line of mature evergreen trees along the property line were cloaked black. A small path between them took Clint out into what looked like a park with walking trails. Silently, he listened again and heard an intake of a breath and a little moan.

Hidden among the branches, Marcher was wrapped around Phil, his hands holding Phil’s arms to his side.  Eyes unfocused, Phil’s head lolled to the side, his body half-limp.

“Decided the only way to get Phil was to catch him while he’s drunk?” Clint drawled. “Really?”

“How the hell did you get here?” Marcher demanded, checking the watch on his wrist. “The machine should have powered down.”

“Hey,” Phil slurred, trying to push away from Marcher’s hold. “J.D.’s cousin’s a good guy. Great kisser too.”

“What’s the plan? There’s no way this works out for you.” Clint watched Phil, saw the way he tensed, trying to prepare himself.

“I get to screw him over. Fuck up his life like he fucked up mine,” Marcher sneered. “Finally get to see if he’s as good a fuck as …”

Phil dropped like a stone, a dead weight that rolled out of Marcher’s hold and collapsed on the ground, leaving Clint access to punch Marcher right in the face. That wasn’t enough; Clint hit him again and took him down with what Natasha would call extreme prejudice, sure that he broke Marcher’s arm in the process. The last blow knocked him out.

“Who are you?” Phil asked. Unsteadily propped up on one elbow, he was sprawled under the long branches.

“Just a guy,” Clint answered. “Now let’s get you back to your friends.”

* * *

 

“What the …” Steve paused at the top of the cellar stairs, watching as Clint dragged Marcher’s unconscious body, bound with duct tape and marine rope, up them. He’d gathered his things from Phil’s house into an easily transportable bundle after he checked Marcher’s wrist to find a stunningly simple on switch labelled, conveniently, ‘return.’

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Clint said to Phil as he unceremoniously dropped Marcher on the ground at the Agent’s feet.  “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“What are you wearing?” Natasha asked.

“Is that …” Phil pulled off his sunglasses and looked closer. His eyes widened and he stared at Clint’s shirt. “That’s where that went to. I always wondered.”

“Um, guys, want to fill us in?” Tony landed beside Steve and flipping up his face plate. “Katniss goes in and comes out looking like a reject from _That 70s Show_? There’s a story there.”

“Phil and I have a date. Jager bombs and the Bee Gees,” Clint said with a grin. “I made him a promise.”

Changing the past, as it turned out, was a subtle thing. Clint didn’t stop Phil from almost dying at Loki’s hands nor did it rewrite any of their histories or change who the President of the U.S. was.  Phil was still estranged from his family, an ex-Army Ranger, and the biggest bad ass motherfucker SHIELD had ever seen, at least in Clint’s estimation, but he was pretty biased about his husband’s good qualities. The only difference they could discover was Phil’s fuzzy memory of one hell of a party and The Guy who kissed him in a closet and fought another guy over him. It wasn’t until a year later, at Indiana University at Bloomington, that Phil met Michael Cavell who idolized the Howling Commandos and wanted to write his thesis on them. He lost his virginity one night to Michael after an evening arguing the merits of Steve Rogers versus Sargent Fury as a leader and two taco pizzas with a six pack of beer. They’d kept in touch; Cavell was now a professor of history at Stanford and they exchanged Christmas cards.

Two days later, the dust settled and the debriefings ended with Marcher safely tucked away in a prison cell. His machine was frustrating all the science types because it shouldn’t have worked the first time for Marcher much less Clint. Tony hadn’t slept, tearing the thing apart and rebuilding it twice already. Leaving them to it, Phil took Clint back to their room and told him what he remembered of that night and that conversation ended with both of them exhausted and sweaty, AC/DC playing over the speakers. That same smoldering look was in Phil’s eyes as he rolled over and pulled Clint close.

Neither of them could stomach Jagermeister after drinking Tony’s expensive scotch, but tequila worked just fine. Phil, however, made Clint wear the t-shirt to bed, so Clint found a vintage store that sold band tour shirts for Phil. Farrah Fawcett didn’t make a comeback, but Clint got Phil the Lego Millenium Falcon for them to put together. Phil started calling Clint “The Guy” in public until Tony picked it up and put two and two together.

Clint, as it turned out, didn’t mind at all.

 

 

 


End file.
